


The way to a man's heart

by Robin_tCJ



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Christmas Fluff, Cooking, Fluff, Getting Together, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-29
Updated: 2019-12-29
Packaged: 2021-02-27 05:29:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,674
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22011850
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Robin_tCJ/pseuds/Robin_tCJ
Summary: Tony comes across Steve preparing a holiday dinner.
Relationships: Steve Rogers/Tony Stark
Comments: 10
Kudos: 125
Collections: POTS (18+) Stony Stocking 2019





	The way to a man's heart

**Author's Note:**

  * For [betheflame](https://archiveofourown.org/users/betheflame/gifts).
  * In response to a prompt by [betheflame](https://archiveofourown.org/users/betheflame/pseuds/betheflame) in the [stony_stocking_2019](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/stony_stocking_2019) collection. 



> **Prompt:** Cooking for the family

When Tony comes into the room, he’s not expecting to see Steve standing at the counter with his hands covered in thick, white glops of… something that makes him think dirty thoughts. 

He closes his eyes for a moment and drags his mind back out of the gutter, internally reprimanding himself. There’s nothing _actually_ sexy about… whatever it is. There’s just something sexy about _Steve_ , which is a thought he’s not supposed to be letting himself have. 

Tony opens them again, and Steve is still standing at the kitchen counter, his hands coated in white goo. 

“This is awkward,” Tony says after a beat. He just can’t help himself from getting a dig in at Steve’s expense, after all, if for no other reason than to make sure Steve doesn’t notice the way Tony can’t keep his eyes off the other man. 

Steve’s cheeks flush pink and he looks up from the counter. He holds his hands up in front of him, palms facing in, like a surgeon who’s just washed his hands. In front of him, on the counter, is a big naked bird. 

A raw turkey in a big black roaster. 

“Oh, good, Tony. I could use another pair of hands,” Steve says, opting to ignore Tony’s comment. “I didn’t exactly think this through.” 

Tony blinks at him. “What are you doing?” 

“I need to wrap the wings but my hands are kind of a mess.” 

Tony stares. “I understand where I went wrong. I asked you that question in a way that made it sound like I was looking for a specific ‘what’ that you’re doing, but in reality I was looking for a more general ‘what,’” Tony says. “I’ll be clearer; what, in general terms, are you _doing_?” 

The corner of Steve’s mouth quirks up just a tic, and Tony recognizes that as Steve’s ‘I’m humouring the crazy person, let’s see where this goes’ expression. “It’s Christmas Eve.” 

“It… is?” 

Steve rolls his eyes. “I know your assistant has your entire calendar downloaded onto every piece of technology in this tower, and I’ve even got a paper copy in my suite in case of an emergency,” he says. “You definitely know it’s Christmas Eve.” 

“I mean, okay, I know it’s December 24, but it’s also not even noon, and it also doesn’t explain what you’re doing.” 

“I’m cooking a turkey,” Steve sighs. “For dinner. For Christmas dinner.” 

Tony stares at him. 

“We have team Christmas dinner tonight,” Steve tells him, looking ludicrous with his hands still up in front of him and speaking slowly as though Tony is a very small, very confused child. “As a matter of fact, I’m pretty sure that’s actually _in_ your calendar.” 

“Oh, I’m pretty sure it’s not, Cap,” Tony says, shaking his head. “I’d know.” 

“Jarvis?” Steve says, glancing up at the ceiling – no matter how many times Tony has told him Jarvis isn’t _in_ the ceiling, he’s everywhere, and there’s absolutely no reason to look up when the Avengers are talking to him. 

“Team Holiday Dinner is scheduled for 4:30 pm today,” Jarvis betrays him from the ceiling. 

Tony crosses his arms. “Who eats dinner at 4:30?” 

Steve sighs, and goes back to what he was doing when Tony had come into the communal kitchen and found him with his hands covered in white gloop. He starts… massaging the turkey on the counter. He reaches his hand into a bowl beside the bird, scoops up more of the white gloop, and starts to rub it into the turkey’s pebbled skin. It’s intensely distracting. 

“We won’t eat _right_ at 4:30, more like 5:00,” Steve says, smoothing his hands over the poultry. Tony’s actually having a hard time tearing his gaze away from where Steve’s giant hands are sliding across the flesh of the impressively sized bird. “And if we eat early, we’ll have room for turkey buns before Midnight Mass.” 

“Mass? Like, Church?” 

Steve shrugs one shoulder, wiping the last of the gloop onto the bird and then moving over to the sink. He puts his hands under the faucet, and Tony moves forward on autopilot to turn the tap on for him, getting close enough into Steve’s space that he can smell sage, pepper, and… is that mayonnaise? 

“Well, for Nat and I. She said she’d go with me. I don’t expect anyone else to go, but my favourite part is the turkey buns, so I wanted to have one before church.” 

Tony takes a minute to think about that. “Your favourite part of Christmas dinner is leftovers?” 

Steve grins, finishing washing his hands under the faucet and drying them on the towel he has draped over his shoulder. 

He moves back over to the turkey and starts shaking containers over it, dusting the white-glooped bird with savoury smelling herbs, salt and pepper. 

“What did you put all over Big Bird, there?” Tony asks, engaging against his better judgement. He should be making excuses about important science, Stark Industries business, anything to get out of dinner. But Steve is moving so fluidly in the kitchen, almost as graceful as he is on the battlefield, that Tony finds himself entranced, wanting to draw the moment out. This thing between them, this easy camaraderie and acceptance, is new. Tony doesn’t want to let it go just yet. 

“Mayonnaise,” Steve says, confirming Tony’s earlier olfactory suspicion. 

“What _for_?” 

Steve smiles at him, and it’s that blinding, sweet, no-one-else-in-the-room-but-you smile, and Tony’s powerless against it, even though he knows he shouldn’t want it, shouldn’t crave Steve’s attention the way he does. 

“When I was comin’ up, Ma and I used to go help with the church Christmas dinner,” he says. “We didn’t have money for a turkey either, but there were people even worse off than us, so Ma always said we should volunteer for the dinner, make sure everyone got fed. And the church put on a big supper – three dozen turkeys, potatoes, gravy, the whole deal. The ladies at the church taught me how to cook, and they always put mayonnaise on the turkey. To help it brown, make the skin crispy and golden.” 

Tony frowns in thought; it makes sense. The oils and fat and egg in the mayo, browning under the heat of the oven. It’s simple chemistry. 

“And what are you putting on it now?” Tony asks, coming closer and leaning over the counter to watch. 

“Sage, poultry seasoning, salt and pepper.” Steve finishes dusting the turkey with the herbs and seasonings, then tears a little strip of tin foil off the roll and rips it into four pieces. “Then this goes over the tips of the wings and the ends of the drumsticks, to keep them from burning.” 

Tony watches Steve work for a while. “So. Christmas dinner.” 

“Christmas dinner,” Steve says. “Turkey’ll need about 5 hours in the oven, it’s a big one and I like to do it slow, but you can help me with the sides.” 

Tony’s brain runs a mile a minute, coming up with excuses. He has a million things to do in the workshop, there are repairs to make on the armour, there’s paperwork to sign. 

“Sure,” he says, sidling up close to Steve, so close he can feel the heat of him through their clothes. “What’s first?” 

The grin Steve gives him is worth it. 

+++++ 

They spend hours cooking. There’s nalysnyky for Natasha, green bean casserole for Bruce, and cranberries and stuffing for Clint. They hadn’t been able to replicate any Asgardian recipes for Thor, but Steve had managed a beautiful pork belly dressed in pineapples and maraschino cherries that went in the second oven a couple of hours after the turkey. 

“I asked Jarvis what your favourite dessert was,” Steve admits when he pulls out a couple of dough balls wrapped in plastic from the fridge. “I started the dough a couple of days ago.” 

Steve rolls out the dough, presses it gently into a pie plate. He works on the filling next, letting Tony watch him. Pumpkin pie; Tony hasn’t had homemade pumpkin pie since his mother had died. He’d watched her, when he was small; the chef staff did most of the cooking, but Mom made her own pie, and no one else’s had tasted quite like hers since. 

Steve works at it methodically, and he does a pretty good job of it. He dashes nutmeg into the filling mixture, and then reaches for the cinnamon, but Tony stops him, puts his hand over Steve’s, around the jar of nutmeg. 

“A little more,” he croaks, his voice sounding loud in the room. The smell of turkey and stuffing in the oven fills the air. “Mom always added extra nutmeg.” 

Steve smiles, and together they turn the jar over and sprinkle more nutmeg into the mixture. 

“It’s really nice,” Tony says, after a moment. “You doing this for us.” 

“You’re my family, Tony,” Steve says, impossibly quiet. 

Tony looks up and meets Steve’s eye. Steve is staring back at him, cheeks flushed and lips warm and soft and pink. Steve puts the nutmeg down, brings his hand up to Tony’s cheek, brushes his thumb over Tony’s jaw. 

“Flour,” he says, after a moment. But Tony knows it’s an excuse, knows what he sees in Steve’s eyes, because it’s the same feeling he’s had for months, looking at Steve. A feeling of want, of hope, of _what if?_

Tony takes a deep breath, already planning his escape to Japan for a month if this goes wrong, and leans forward and up, pressing his lips to Steve’s. 

But he’s not disappointed, not humiliated and scorned. No, Tony presses his lips to Steve’s, and Steve kisses him back, hand sliding back into Tony’s hair from the side of his face, kissing and kissing and kissing. 

When Steve finally pulls back, his cheeks are flushed and his lips are glistening, but his eyes are twinkling with happiness. “Merry Christmas, Tony.” 

“Yeah,” Tony says, a little shell shocked. “Yeah, I suppose it is.” 


End file.
